


The Window to the Soul

by majesticrhyhorn



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Death, Gen, Gun Violence, Murder, Slaughter Statement Fic, Statement Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-10 23:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20536061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesticrhyhorn/pseuds/majesticrhyhorn
Summary: Statement of Walter Collins regarding his concerning urges and the events leading up to them. Original statement given 16 March 2003. Recording by Ryan Sanchez, archival assistant of the Usher Foundation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy! This is my first time really posting anything anywhere. I'm open to constructive feedback, and if there's any other warnings that I should have probably included, please let me know! 
> 
> This chapter is the written form of the podfic I recorded, which is linked in Chapter 2.

Statement of Walter Collins regarding his concerning urges and the events leading up to them. Original statement given 16 March 2003. Recording by Ryan Sanchez, archival assistant at the Usher Foundation.

Start of statement.

You ever get that feeling that you’re looking at something you really shouldn’t be looking at, but you can’t bring yourself to look away? That’s what happened to me. I knew I shouldn’t have kept looking. It felt wrong. But I kept looking. I heard the call to look, so I did.

I know I’m not the least imposing of guys. I’ve known that since high school. I’m big and rough looking. It only got worse as I got older, but you have to know that I’d never hurt anyone. I’ve never gotten in fights with anyone, never yelled at my parents, never felt anything ill towards anyone. Ever. Not even those who bullied me relentlessly in school.

I’ve been a project manager for fifteen years, and I’ve seen a lot on job sites. I’ve seen buildings through from start to finish. I’ve watched impressive projects come together. I've seen what happens when humans come together to solve problems and create, rather than destroy. But I’ve also seen accidents on the site. I’ve seen disagreements, close-calls, fatal incidents. You learn to be prepared for anything. What happened that day…was something else.

It was July, and we were on our way to finishing up a project on a school campus, so the site was easily accessible. I was reviewing shop drawings when I heard the yelling. Then the gunshot. Then another. I ran out of the trailer and saw a woman in business casual clothing with a gun in her hand. It was already too late to stop anything.

Two of my guys were on the ground, bleeding out. A few of the other workers ran over to them, trying to help. One worker was calling for an ambulance, another across the site phoned for the police. I saw someone charge at the woman, trying to get to her and stop her, but she shot him straight in the face. Another ran at her, but she got them in the chest, making the worker fall back.

While she was turned away from me, I took my chance and lunged at her, with a speed I’d never expect from myself, as big as I am, but I managed to get her. She turned right as I tackled her and the gun flew out of her hand.

This was when I couldn’t look away. She had been cool and collected, smiling calmly the whole time she fired the weapon, but they say that the eyes are the window to the soul, and I saw something feral there. Something evil.

I knew in that moment that I had to look away. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to turn away, to look anywhere else but her eyes. But I couldn’t. I stared into those blue depths and she stared straight back, as if she could see straight into my soul in return.

She didn’t fight me. The whole time I pressed her into the rocky ground, she remained perfectly still, smiling away as she stared into my eyes. I don’t know how much time passed before authorities arrived. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, but it felt like hours.

As soon as the police pulled me off of her, the spell was broken. She went wild. Her eyes filled with anger as she thrashed against their hold, nearly breaking free as hands took hold of her flailing arms. She managed to scratch an officer in the face and cackled at the sight of the blood.

They managed to wrangle her into the car and I stepped back, looking around to see paramedics tending to the casualties and officers beginning to take statements from the workers who were untouched.

The officer who’d gotten scratched came to hear my side of things, but I really couldn’t offer much.

I haven’t felt the same since. I went home that night feeling at war with myself, but I ignored it. We halted all progress until the site was cleared and the situation with our workers was resolved.

News came the next day that the woman was the wife of the first man down. They didn’t know what provoked the attack. She refused to answer questions and tried to attack anyone who went near her, so they left her to it in a cell.

Clarence Jones. That was her husband, the first man to die on that site. The next was Jose Medina, then Paul Davis. Sam Oliver was the only casualty to survive the ordeal, but they quit as soon as they were discharged from the hospital. I can’t say I blame ‘em.

This all happened about a month ago. I went back to work, trying to forget that anything happened, but it’s easier said than done. I’m writing to your institute because someone needs to know what happened when I took her down.

I felt the energy within her. The urge to kill, the need to see blood and cause death. The satisfaction of seeing a mangled and tortured corpse on the ground.

The feeling, this urge for blood hasn’t left me. I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone. I’ve never felt any intent to injure anyone until that day. Now I have to fight it. Every day. I try to ignore it, but it keeps getting stronger and stronger.

I killed a bird the other day. Snatched it straight off the bush in my yard and tortured the little thing until it bled and died in my hands. Once I came back to my senses, I cried for hours, holding the little creature in my hands and apologizing profusely. I eventually cleaned it up and buried it in the backyard.

It was the first thing I killed, and I’ve been fighting the urge since. But it’s not the killing that scares me. It’s the fact that I liked it.

I can’t go anywhere without thinking of death and destruction now. On the site, I imagine my workers falling, impaling themselves, getting run over by equipment. When I’m out in public, I imagine the blood of others on my hands, the idea of stabbing someone, feeling the hot blood rushing over my hands and seeing the agony in their eyes. I fantasize about how good it would feel to kill.

It terrifies me. I feel like I should tell someone now that it’s getting worse. I need to get this out while I’m still me. Something’s taking over. Something evil. I’m worried that these urges will keep growing and I’ll do something that I won’t regret. If it does happen. I’m sorry. I’ve never meant to hurt anyone, and while I’m still in my right mind, just know that I truly mean this.

End of statement.

I did some follow up on this statement, recognizing the signs of the Slaughter taking yet another innocent person.

Helena Jones was given the death sentence, but was killed before her execution date by prison security on 28 June 2003 after attacking four other inmates, killing two. She had been a realtor and no one interviewed from her office had one bad thing to say about her. The only unusual remark was that she had become distant in the months leading up to the original attack at the project site.

Walter Collins was found in his apartment by his mother on 7 August 2004. He had left his management job in late 2003 and apparently slipped off the radar, living off of his savings, which I’m assuming was in an effort to minimize interacting with others. A method of resisting the urges. In his apartment, they found notes scattered all over most of the surfaces.

What was unusual about the notes was the presence of two handwriting samples sharing most of the pages, considering that Mr. Collins was unmarried and lived alone. There is one sheet I’ve managed to obtain to store in the file. The writing sample taking up most of the page is large and messy, nearly scratching through the sheet. The message reads, “Kill them all. Make them bleed. Make them kill. Feel the blood,” along with other similar, eerie phrases. Near the bottom of the page, the handwriting changes to a gentle, small, shaky script that reads, “I don’t want to hurt them. I don’t want to hurt anyone,” repeated over and over.

While Mr. Collins’ death does minimize the suffering he may have eventually created, what he didn’t know is that the Slaughter likely continues to lurk among us. He was merely one pawn in a larger game. May he rest in peace.

End of recording.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link to podfic recording for Chapter 1. [8:16]

[https://drive.google.com/open?id=1kgzyGbA1fSJQ2Vtov6Llh6KbaxIF_6O4](url)


End file.
